


Cat and Mouse

by kiyala



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Birthday, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 06:55:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is convinced that he doesn't know Arthur at all. He's the only one who believes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat and Mouse

**Author's Note:**

> self-beta'd, so I apologise for any horrendous errors I've missed.

“We’re playing a game of hide and seek,” Arthur whispers against the corner of Eames’ mouth before kissing it. “And the world is our playground.”  


  


This Arthur is a projection of Eames’ own mind, he knows, but he is also half-naked and watching the forger with obvious desire. Eames can’t quite bring himself to mind.  


  


“I’m working, Arthur,” he replies, and the reflection in the mirror before him flickers in and out of the perfect copy of the best friend of his current team’s mark. “If you wait five minutes, then I’m all yours for the rest of the dream.”  


  


Arthur licks his lips slowly and Eames tries not to watch; tries not to pay attention to the way his shirt is hanging open and his hair is falling out of its usual neat style.  


  


“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want me to be,” Arthur points out. “So clearly, you _do_ want me here. Looking like this. Distracting you from your work.”  


  


Eames growls in a mix of desire and frustration, and turns around to tug Arthur closer. “I don’t even know why I bother trying to rationalise your behaviour to myself like this. Really, Arthur, hide and seek? Is that the best my mind can do? Because last time I checked, I was bloody brilliant.”  


  


Arthur opens his mouth to reply, but Eames grunts, shaking his head.  


  


“It’s not important,” he decides, and covers Arthur’s lips with his own.  


  


*

  


  


The thing is this: Eames doesn’t understand Arthur. Not very much—no, hardly at all. For someone who makes a living by reading a person by the smallest things they do, this is more than a little unsettling.  


  


Then, there is also the fact that Eames wants Arthur—to the point of obsession, and it may be related to how he doesn’t understand a thing about the point man, because there is nothing Eames wants more than to completely unravel Arthur, make him come undone, and then slowly put him back together again.  


  


Arthur lets him. Not just the projection Eames’ mind conjures up when there is half a world between them, but the real Arthur too. They meet in countries where they’re running jobs, they find each other in countries where neither of them have any need to be. They track each other down, they drag each other to bed, and they fuck. Eames memorises the look of pure ecstasy on Arthur’s face, the way his heels dig into Eames’ back in a wordless demand for _more, more, more_ , and the roughness in his voice when he moans.  


  


In return, Arthur learns the way Eames pleads shamelessly when he is tied down to the bed, the way he arches—always desperate to _watch_ —as Arthur screws him into the mattress, and how he rolls Arthur’s name off his tongue when he comes, making it sound like the most precious word in existence.  


  


They leave bite marks and bruises in the shapes of fingers on each other’s sin, and move along until the next time. It confuses the fuck out of Eames. He’s always been the one to back out of relationships when they become too predictable, but this is the exact opposite, and he isn’t sure he likes this, either.  


  


*

  


  


When they work together, everything is immediately a hundred times worse. Eames watches Arthur closely, trying to pick up whatever information he can. A light tan at his sleeve indicating that he’s been in warmer climates (uninformative: Eames already knows he’d been in Mumbai a month ago), the way he’s taking notes in a new moleskine (Eames also knows that he ran out of pages in his previous one on that job in Mumbai) and the relaxed tone to his voice that is a combination of a proper night’s sleep (after Eames had exhausted him) and good coffee that morning (Eames had bought Arthur’s favourite).  


  


At the same time, Eames behaves differently to normal. He hides his intelligence behind flippant remarks and even goes as far as denying any knowledge about things he knows back to front. Arthur notices—of _course_ he does—but if anything, he plays along, feigning irritation at Eames’ feigned ignorance.  


  


When Arthur and Mal go out that afternoon for a walk and some coffee, Cobb turns to Eames.  


  


“Why do you do that every time Arthur is around?”  


  


“Do what?” Eames asks, not looking up from the moustache he’s scribbling onto the picture of an actress on his newspaper.  


  


“You act like you’re—oh, I don’t know, not even half as intelligent as we both know you are!”  


  


“Do I really?” Eames sounds bored, and starts to add a top hat to the picture.  


  


“You pretend you don’t know words that are longer than three syllables. And you asked for a calculator to do a sum that you could do in your head.”  


  


Eames looks up with a smile that has no real amusement to it. “Perhaps Arthur is just so devastatingly handsome that I forgot how to do my maths.”  


  


Cobb sighs, but drops the subject when Mal and Arthur return with coffee. Arthur places a cup on Eames’ desk and even though he hasn’t asked beforehand, it’s the exact right kind of coffee, and Eames glances up for a moment, his fingers light on Arthur’s wrist as unspoken thanks. Arthur clears his throat and moves his hand away, but the way their fingers brush against each other is entirely intentional.  


  


The good thing about working on jobs together is that they are within easy reach of each other. They have two separate hotel rooms, because it at least allows them to pretend this means nothing.  


  


It’s a pretence they put a lot of effort into maintaining when they are apart, because the moment they’re alone together, naked on the bed with Arthur clinging to Eames and moaning his name, and Eames struggling to remember how to breathe, they don’t have the mental functions to do anything but take all they can from each other.  


  


Afterwards, Eames pulls Arthur against him to spoon, laughing at the way the point man struggles and protests.  


  


They both know it’s pointless; come morning and, no matter how much space they put between themselves when falling asleep, they wake wrapped around each other. They extract themselves from each other’s arms and carry on, making absolutely no mention of it.  


  


This is their relationship: chasing each other for days on end when they’re apart, and not talking about it when they’re together.  


  


Eames hopes that if he’s bloody confused by this, then he is not the only one.  


  


*

  


  


Then, once the job is over, they go right back to chasing each other around the world in the middle of their work. With a highly dangerous and high-paying job like theirs, most people in the field are content to take fewer jobs. Arthur did not earn his reputation as the best by sitting idle, and Eames likes to keep busy; there is always work to be found.  


  


So really, Eames thinks, it’s not that they’re running from each other; just that neither of them are particularly disposed to staying in the one place for too long. Still, he can’t play off the single-minded determination with which they track each other down. Eames is a brilliant liar, but he won’t even try and pretend that this is anything other than what it is. He measures his time in terms of whether or not he is working, and whether or not he is with Arthur.  


  


He can’t bring himself too feeling particularly troubled by it, when he’s already given Arthur ample warning about just how obsessive he can be. Besides, it is difficult for him to feel bad about something he enjoys so much, and he’s yet to find something more thrilling than that one moment when he’s finally found Arthur and is just three steps away from having him once again, however briefly.  


  


This is exactly what he’s feeling at the moment. It’s a warm night in Sydney but the breeze coming in from the harbour is cool as Eames stands there, eyes fixed on the back of Arthur’s blue-grey suit jacket, drinking in the way he stands with his shoulders relaxed. He’s finished a job, and it had been fairly low-risk, possibly even legal, and Arthur is in no hurry to move any time soon; Eames can read all of this simply from the way he stands.  


  


He steps forward, taking care to brush against Arthur as he joins him at the railing, overlooking the harbour.  


  


“Fancy meeting you here.”  


  


Arthur’s lips curve into a brief smile before his expression turns unreadable once again.  


  


“Mr. Eames.”  


  


There’s a question underlying his tone, because Arthur has always been a little vain, a little too invested in the image he projects of pure efficiency, and he always wants to know how Eames can track him down and make it seem so effortless.  


  


Truth is, it takes Eames a great deal of work to find Arthur. It takes him hours—sometimes days—of research, just to know which part of which country he’s in. He’s just a much better liar than Arthur, and that’s why he can saunter up to him in a crowd and make it look like an utter coincidence.  


  


“You like the water,” Eames says, looking over the rail at the dark blue-green water. “So I thought I’d find you here.”  


  


“Water,” Arthur repeats. “There’s water everywhere.”  


  


Eames looks around them, at the people walking on the wharfs, the muffled conversations spilling out from the restaurants around them. He knows what it’s like, living a life with barely any constants, barely any opportunity to experience this first-hand.  


  


“I knew you’d be here,” he says simply.  


  


Arthur nods, and Eames can see a smile touching his lips again for a brief moment. “You know me too well, Mr. Eames, I should be worried. Are you coming?”  


  


He walks away without giving Eames the chance to reply, or to tell him that no, no, he’s got it all wrong, and Eames doesn’t understand him at all. Eames follows, falling into step with him, brushing against him far too often to get away with calling it an accident. When they’re in the hotel room, Arthur turns around and asks him, “Why do you need to touch me so much?”  


  


His lips descend on Eames’ before he even has the chance to reply. Probably a good thing, Eames decides, because fuck if he knows how to answer that. They kiss each other hard, tongues hot and wet against each other, and it doesn’t really matter _why_ Eames feels the need to run his hands over Arthur’s chest, unbuttoning his shirt and memorising the feel of the muscles beneath his skin. It doesn’t matter why Eames’ lips trace the lines of Arthur’s jaw, neck, shoulders— _everything_ —mapping everything out with open-mouthed kisses that are nothing but reverent. All that matters is that Arthur lets him, fingers twisting into the bed sheets as Eames lavishes attention on one nipple, then the other, his fingers ghosting over the line of dark hair that runs down Arthur’s navel.  


  


“Fuck, Eames.”  


  


Of course, because Arthur is Arthur, he responds to being driven to incoherency by flipping them over and doing the same to Eames. He uses one hand to pin both of Eames’ wrists to the headboard and the other to trace the dark swirls of ink that decorate his arms and torso as they grind against each other.  


  


“Don’t come yet,” Arthur pants against Eames’ mouth, as if he has any control over it. “I want you to fuck me.”  


  


Eames groans, low and hungry, and nods. Arthur moves away from him, reaching for the lube and preparing himself. Sometimes, he drags it out, mouth open and his gaze fixed on Eames, making sure he’s watching. This isn’t one of those times; he’s too impatient for anything but the bare minimum, but Eames isn’t having that. He plucks the tube from Arthur’s side, slicks his own fingers, and slides two of them in to join Arthur’s.  


  


“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur sounds breathless, and makes a choked sound of ecstasy when Eames curls his fingers. He moves his own out of the way, opting to wrap both arms around Eames’ shoulders and rock against the fingers that are inching closer and closer to that one place—  


  


“ _Yes_!” Arthur cries, and Eames pushes his fingers deeper, rubbing against Arthur’s prostate. Arthur drops his head against Eames’ shoulder and lets out a broken moan. “Fuck yes, right there—more, _yes_ , just like that, yes, you know me so fucking _well_.”  


  


Later, when they’re falling asleep together, Eames will think, _no, that’s wrong, of course I don’t_ , but what he says now is, “God, you’re so desperate for this tonight.”  


  


“It’s been four weeks,” Arthur pants in explanation, and Eames has to concede the point. They’ve never gone this long without tracking each other down before.  


  


He’s about to ask why it would matter to _Arthur_ , but Arthur takes the opportunity to roll a condom onto Eames and position himself before sinking down on him.  


  


Eames swears roughly, hands coming up to hold Arthur’s sides, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to bruise. He struggles to find his voice, to warn Arthur to slow down, because he isn’t going to last for long, but Arthur is murmuring breathlessly for him to _hold on, just hold on_ , as he takes Eames down to the hilt, gasping, “ _There_.”  


  


Eames knows Arthur’s body well by now; he knows the right angle, just how rough Arthur likes it, and the way he comes even harder if Eames mouths at that point where his jaw meets his neck.  


  


They’re wrecked by the time they crawl under the sheets of the remade bed. As always, Eames pulls Arthur close, chest to back.  


  


“If the sex is this good, maybe I should take my time tracking you down from now on,” he jokes, grinning.  


  


Arthur’s fingers are five sharp points of pressure on his arm. “Not funny, Eames.”  


  


“Mhmm.”  


  


Arthur doesn’t move out of his arms this time, and Eames finds that he can’t fall asleep for a long time.  


  


*

  


  


It takes Eames six tries, two elaborate lies and one sudden realisation that Arthur can’t lie in the middle of sex to find out when his birthday is.  


  


In the end, his efforts are wasted because they’re working a mostly-legal, low-profile job with Cobb while Mal is out of the field with her second pregnancy, and Arthur’s birthday falls right in the middle of their schedule.  


  


Cobb walks over to Eames’ desk when Arthur is out taking photos of their mark, carrying a brown paper package in a way that usually makes the forger think _drugs_.  


  


He unfolds it to reveal a dark green sweater vest. Eames stares.  


  


Cobb clears his throat. “I… thought you knew it was Arthur’s birthday in three days.”  


  


“Oh.” Eames’ eyes widen in understanding. “I see. That’s for Arthur, then.”  


  


Cobb nods, eyeing the door carefully even though Arthur isn’t due back for another forty minutes. “Do you think he’ll like it?”  


  


“Why are you asking _me_ , he knows you the best—oh.” Eames reaches across, touching the fabric, and then checking the tag. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Cobb, that’s merino wool.”  


  


Cobb squints, clearly confused. “What does that mean?”  


  


Eames sighs and holds the sweater up. “The type of wool. Arthur doesn’t like merino—says it itches—so you’re better off giving him something… well, like this.”  


  


Eames opens up his laptop and goes through his browser history until he finds the correct link. It opens up to an online catalogue of cashmere sweaters instead, and he nods approvingly.  


  


“You’ll want to get him something like this instead. This brand is his favourite, actually.”  


  


“Why do you have the catalogue for his favourite brand of sweaters in your history?” Cobb asks, eyebrow raised.  


  


“Oh, nothing important,” Eames says dismissively. “Just some research. For another job.”  


  


Cobb nods slowly, clearly not buying the lie. “Well, thanks. I knew you’d be able to help. I don’t think anyone knows Arthur better than you do.”  


  


Eames frowns. “No, I’d say you take that title.”  


  


“You know what kind of sweaters he likes,” Cobb points out.  


  


 _Only because I take them off him so often_ , Eames thinks, but decides that Cobb probably doesn’t want to know. Instead, he simply shrugs.  


  


“Have you bought him anything?”  


  


“Should I?” Eames asks, because the question’s actually been bothering him for weeks. He has a night of brilliant sex planned, but doesn’t know what to do beyond that.  


  


“Of course you should,” Cobb says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.  


  


“Hm,” Eames nods once, shutting his laptop. “Perhaps I will.”  


  


*

  


  


It’s Arthur’s birthday, and he’s in his hotel room with Eames, wearing the new, deep blue cashmere sweater vest Cobb has given him. He’s already thanked Cobb, but now, he leans across the double bed and presses his lips to Eames’, kissing him slowly and passionately.  


  


Eames makes a low sound of amazement at the back of his throat. “What did I do to deserve that?”  


  


“I know you helped Cobb with the present,” he says, kissing Eames again.  


  


“I have something for you,” Eames murmurs, getting up and reaching into his bag.  


  


“You didn’t have to,” Arthur says, looking both embarrassed and pleased as he takes the small parcel.  


  


“I know,” Eames replies, and presses a kiss to Arthur’s lips. “But I did anyway.”  


  


Arthur carefully pries the wrapping paper apart, his eyes widening when he recognises it as a book. More specifically, a collection of poems by his favourite author.  


  


“How did you…” Arthur looks up and Eames, and kisses him hard. “How the fuck do you know me so damn _well_?”  


  


“But I don’t,” Eames says mildly. “I’ve been trying and trying to figure you out, but I don’t have a clue—”  


  


“Eames, look,” Arthur sighs and looks him in the eye. “What is my favourite colour?”  


  


“Red,” Eames says, bewildered, “But I only know that because your totem is red and so you find it comforting—”  


  


“My favourite season.”  


  


“Autumn,” Eames answers automatically, “Because you can wear your suits and not worry about the weather being too hot. Arthur, this proves nothing—”  


  


“My favourite food? The exact way I like my coffee? Hell, you’d know the exact way I’d like my tea and I don’t even _drink_ tea.”  


  


“A dash of milk and half a spoon of sugar,” Eames mumbles, and looks up. “…Are we dreaming, Arthur? Because this isn’t making sense.”  


  


“No.” Arthur laughs softly and shakes his head. “No, we’re not dreaming. It doesn’t make sense because you’ve been so busy insisting that you don’t understand a thing about me that you haven’t even realised you’ve figured out more about me than anyone else.”  


  


“But how would that even be possible?” Eames asks incredulously. “To—to properly understand you… you would have had to _let me_.”  


  


Arthur raises an eyebrow, thumbs idly stroking across the cover of his book of poetry. “I did. But most of it was your own observation, Eames. I make enough sense if someone tries hard enough to understand. You’re just the only one who’s really tried, even if it was because you were trying to convince yourself you didn’t get a thing.”  


  


“You would have _wanted_ me to understand, then. To figure you out.”  


  


“Think about it. Is it really so hard to believe?”  


  


Eames thinks about it. He considers the fact that he’s the one person in the world who knows Arthur the best, and that he is _still_ filled with little mysteries. How Arthur is probably the one person in the world who knows _Eames_ the best, and yet, he manages to surprise the point man when he wants to.  


  


Nothing predictable, Eames thinks with a smile, and leans across to press his lips to Arthur’s.  


  


“No,” he murmurs. “Not at all.”  


  


x


End file.
